Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
Olivia POV
A strange sense of quiet settled into his dorm room. I woke the next morning, on the floor, where he sat beside me. When I lifted my aching head and managed a smile, I received a broken one in return. His eyes downcast, a half-hearted attempt to curve one side of his mouth.
I wondered but didn’t pry. If he had something to say, he proved he could say it to me. And I’d proven I could and would listen with all my heart.
I made sure he had fluids, painkiller, ice. I responded to texts from his teammates and his new soccer friends—so he wasn't overdoing it on 'screentime'. I let Fendleman in when he stopped by with food.
Antonio checked in on me. So did Cat.
Hilda didn't.
While Breslin slept, I worked on my story covering the team victory using a couple of the captured anecdotes about Coach Schorr. The story about the two brothers Eddie and Luke shed new light on some of the man behind the myth and the curmudgeon.
High-stakes games take more than skill, timing, even training. “The big wins are gonna come down to those qualities, a team’s either got’em or they don’t,” Coach Schorr said.
A groan escaped Breslin’s lips. I moved to his side. His brow twitched and he made some indescribable sounds, something between a moan and a whimper. I brushed my thumb over his cheek, tucked small pieces of hair behind his ear. Heavy breaths fell from his lips, even as the world seemed to pause, balancing a glass-like stillness in the air.
The dull ache in my chest sharpened. “It's inevitable, isn't it?” I couldn't shake the feeling . . . Like my heart stood watching, waiting, for the current of wind that would shatter it to pieces, the shards tumbling down into an impossibly deep canyon called 'being hopelessly in love with Breslin Cooper'.
It was, of course, an illusion. Like I could step back from the phantom edge and choose another path. The reality was much different. The more I was around him, the stronger my desire—to push him against a wall, kiss the daylights out of him, hug him. Rip his shirt off. Press against him and feel his warmth.
Tell him the truth.
But the truth was an illusion killer. And if I told him about my family (also an inevitability), and the family business, what would that mean for this truce, this trusting place we'd found.
For us?
Later that afternoon . . .
I sat on the floor of his study digging through the journalism archives for images of Schorr. The team picture from the final year my brother played leapt out at me, the Strikers' last national championship year.
Curt’s grin was so much brighter back then.
I’d found a baseball in a cup holder, earlier, and couldn’t help but fidget with it, rolling it along the floor with my open hand.
I wondered what it had been like for Curt. I only knew my half of the equation, the distance, the never-ending parade of 'housekeepers', our regular face-time chats where we'd do homework together. I was the one learning to spell and multiply and divide, but somehow he always needed help with something.
“You’ve been quiet.” Breslin's voice pulled me from my memories. “It’s not you.” He held out his hand. I liked the way my palm fit against his as he pulled me to my feet.
“You did say I talk too much.”
One eyebrow quirked up. “You don’t care what I think.”
“ That wouldn’t be me.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from pulling him into a hug. I didn't know where anything 'stood' between us. But I wanted him to hold me—was that wrong?
“You’ve said a lot of words, but, the strange thing is . . . You don’t say a lot about you. All I know is you’re from a Carolina, explains the accent. And you're a Saber's fan.”
“North Carolina. Guess I’ll have to work on the accent.”
“It’s better than the West Texas twang. And even that grows on people.” He shrugged.
Was that Storm Cooper for he liked my accent? Was there a setting on Google Translate? “Supposed to have a neutral-sounding voice for reporting.”
“Why’d you pick that? You don’t seem the type.”
“Careful. You might actually be bordering on a compliment, there.”
He gave me a look—that signature Coop look, with his hair messed over his forehead, eyes narrowed.
I looked away. “I have my reasons.” The gaggle of water bottles spilling off his nightstand caught my eye. It's probably time for his medication—if he's still having symptoms. I moved to collect the mess, but his hand caught my elbow and pulled me around.
“What if I get asked about my girlfriend? Shouldn’t I be able to answer some basic questions?”
I wouldn't look at him. Couldn't. My whole body was a traitor, and my game face had been knocked out of the game since the night before. “How long do you think we have to keep that up?”
“Dunno. Depends, I guess.”
I glanced up and got caught in his gaze. Warmth crept into my cheeks, hit my neck and rushed through the rest of me. “On what?”
“Well, how do we break up?” He bent and scooped my baseball from the floor. “I’m sure you don’t want to give up your reporter beat. So it can’t be something like you cheated on me.” He tossed me the ball. I snagged it out of the air.
“It wouldn’t be me cheating. I’ve seen the aftereffects of that detonation, thank you very much.” I lightly lobbed the ball back at his chest.
He grimaced. “Dad?”
“Mom.” I shrugged one shoulder like it didn't matter. Hadn't changed my whole life . . .
“Well, wouldn’t be me either.” Breslin batted the ball from one hand to the other, then over to me, like a demented version of table-less table tennis.
I caught it. “What?”
“I’d never do that to someone. My older brother was a . . .” He visibly took in a breath, his t-shirt tight enough it rippled and—Woah, it was either too short or his blue-grey sweatpants had fallen . . . really low. “Cowards cheat. Your mother included.”
“Agreed.” I forced my eyes up as the warmth spinning about my insides ignited into a series of flames. I flipped the ball back to him.
“What are other reasons people break up?” He gripped the baseball along the seams like he was about to throw at the plate.
“You've never broken up with someone?” I held my hands up like a basket. He underhand-pitched it at me. I missed.
“But your parents must’ve . . .” I bent and snagged the baseball before it could roll away. I righted myself, pivoting back to face him. He stared in the direction of the floor. “Oh. Um, sorry.”
“Dad the farmer and Mom the stay-at-home wife? Sure, they fought. Mostly about money.” He held up a hand as a sign to throw him the ball. “What to do about my baseball tournaments. That kind of thing.”
“Wow, didn’t think anything like that existed anymore.” I arced the ball, underhand, back at him. “You look pretty good for eating apple pie and ice cream every night.”
He tipped his head, his dark hair slipping against his forehead, and gave me a pointed look.
“Who knew the Storm Cooper started off so wholesome? They should put your house in a museum or something.”
He rolled his eyes and did a stretching-loosening thing: rotating shoulders, stretching his neck. The hem of his t-shirt flirted with the waistband of his joggers. “We had our issues . . . Still do. My older brother was a shit who ran off and joined the army as soon as he turned eighteen. Didn’t even come home when my mom.” He rubbed at his forehead. “When the cancer. Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“And my dad officially kicked me out about six, seven weeks ago, now? Something about being ungrateful and childish.” He tossed the ball. I caught it.
“I think this time is tough on both sides. Parents struggle with letting go. We're trying to navigate . . . so many changes and unknowns. At least, that’s what my brother says. He and my dad butted heads something fierce when he was my age.”
“Could be. Or my dad’s an asshole that never listens.”
I sighed. “As Dotty would say: I feel that to my very bones.” I held up the baseball. He reached for it, but before he could grab it, I pulled away.
His eyes narrowed and that smirky grin toyed with his lips. “So, figure out how to break up with me?” He pivoted, blocking me in. I moved a step back.
“Oh, I get to break up with you ?”
“I’ll get the sympathy vote from my teammates.”
“Hmph.” I tossed the baseball from one hand to the other. “Shouldn’t be hard for anyone to believe you neglected me or something.”
“Nope.” He snagged the ball out of the air. “I’m determined to treat that woman, the one woman for me, like she hung the moon.” He ducked his head. “You never know how many years or minutes you’ll have.”
My heart lurched too close to the whirling heat. It began to melt. “You’re so Oklahoma. Hung the moon? But you’re also not making this easy.”
“I’m not?” He tossed the baseball at me. “You’re the one who says we should break up.”
Wait, did he move closer? I took another step back. “I thought we agreed. You know before you got clobbered again.” I shifted back and pitched him the ball.
He caught it and grinned. “Game-winning run.”
“ Exhibition game .” I groused at him.
“Counts on our record.”
Yes, and you were amazing. But you shouldn't have risked yourself like that. I grabbed the ball from his hand. “I thought we agreed neither of us were good at pretenses.”
“You could just fall in love with me, then.” He leaned closer. “Problem solved.”
“You first.” I huffed and moved away, pain seared through my chest—stomping out the warmth that had been so alive a moment before. He caught my arm.
“We’re going to be like this even about—” he shook his head. “This?”
“You don’t even like me.”
“Not entirely true. The reporter does annoy the ever loving fuck outta me, sometimes. But there’s other times when this hot girl who loves baseball shows up. I guess she's kinda grown on me.”
Oh no no no. “A true romantic declaration right there.” I pulled against his grip, but he held tight.
“As real as I know how to be, and I’m still a bit mixed up sometimes—and dizzy. I’m not good boyfriend material right now. I’m still fucked up. I don’t want to stay here long term, either. Which I may not have a choice about, despite scoring that run the other night.”
I nodded, but didn’t trust myself to speak.
“But finally, things seem to be getting better for the first time in a while. I think it's because of you.” He tried to tip my chin up, but I turned away. “Look at me, Livvie. Please?”
My whole body caught on fire. This was unfair. Don't ask me to look at you. I can't. I can't because I'm already falling in love with you. And you'll see it, I'm sure it's so obvious . . .
“Livvie?”
I'm mad at you. Mad. For doing this to me. I glared up at him.
One side of his mouth curved and that dangerous look burned in his eyes. “You’re a hot, baseball loving pain in my ass. And I wouldn't have it any other way.” He tucked hair behind my ear. Oh God, I probably looked like a rumpled mess.
“I wouldn't have you be any other way.”
My heart caught in my throat. It pounded and ached. I was inches away from throwing my arms around his neck and pressing my entire body into his. “You're not serious.”
“I am,” he said with a groan. “My head also seriously fucking hurts.” He brought his hand up to his head and took a staggering step toward his room. I moved to his side, helping him to sit on the edge of his bed. My heart raced and I glanced around for my phone. Should I call the ER? Was he ok?
I knelt in front of him, trying to get him to look at me. “Breslin?” He leaned forward, resting his head on my shoulder. My heart caught some invisible strings holding my insides together and pulled them all into a knot. I brought my arm up to hold him.
He stayed that way for a long moment. I couldn't move, I was afraid . . . of hurting him.
He took a seething breath. And finally lifted up, his whole face clenched in pain.
“Hey. Come on. You need to take your meds.” I fumbled for the bottle of painkillers on his nightstand.
“It makes me tired,” he rasped and poured himself into his mattress.
“But you can’t do this to yourself. It’s OK to rest. To be human. To need help.” I righted him and handed him painkiller and water. He didn’t fight me.
He buried his face in my neck, again, and I held him. Ran my fingers through his hair. Shushed in his ear the way Curt comforted me as a child.
“Livvie?”
My heart held its breath. There was something in his voice. “Yeah?”
“We could try?” He lifted his head and those dark blue eyes—they weren't hazy, but focused and clear. The corner of his mouth quirked up into an expression filled with warmth and promises.
His lips on mine felt soft and juicy-thick. Thousands of warm, shimmering tingles surged through my system. It wasn't like his other kisses, no rushing or crashing. This one was deep and slow and all consuming. And melted me from the inside out.
A gentle hum buzzed in the stillness. The heat of his skin burned against my palms. I held him close as I kissed him back—my hands trembling, but no longer hesitant. His arms around me, strong and fixed. We weren't stumbling into something already heated and rushed. This was, instead, the very beginning.
The kiss was over too soon, but he didn't pull away. “Promise me.” His deep voice and hot breath against my ear set swarms of tiny electric moths fluttering about, bumping into one another, igniting heated sparks, and bright, colorful flares. A few even found their way deep into my core.
I wanted to ask him what, why, a hundred other things. But when I was being honest, I already knew everything I needed to. He didn't wait for the answer. He knew what I would say, had come to trust my heart more than my voice or my brain—the two things that always got me into trouble. But what was in my heart was true and right and would always be worth fighting for. “Breslin.” I breathed his name against his cheek.
He didn't stir. I huffed and rolled my eyes. “You're a hot, baseball-loving pain in my ass, too, you know.” I tried to settle him, gently, back against his pillows. “You're also freakishly heavy.” I grumbled as I spilled forward, bumping my head against his nightstand in my attempt not to land on him. “Ow.” I rubbed my forehead and sat beside him.
I soothed short wisps of hair over his ear. He sighed in his sleep.
The winds had changed, my heart had already fallen. But it wasn't in pieces.
“I want 'us' to be real, too.”